


Susurrus

by cicak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autumn, Fluff, M/M, a love story to London in autumn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's autumn in London, and the leaves have disappeared from Regent's park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Susurrus

The coming of the autumn announced itself with the unexpected crunch of frost, early for once, the leaves startled to death by the change of the seasons. They were falling fast and knee deep, picked up by the tail end of the Atlantic hurricane, the winds hitting London unexpected like the proverbial flapping of the butterfly wings in the Amazon. There was a particularly obnoxious drift of leaves near Baker Street tube, by the ice cream shop, that never seemed to clear despite various council attempts. John crunched his way through, barely missing treading on the hand of a small child who had thrown herself into it (as it was the Best. Thing. Ever). Her mother, hand rolled cigarette tucked behind her back so the smoke blew into the road, grimaced apologetically at him as he passed, admonishing her daughter to look where she was frolicking.

While it was crisp and dry, it was bitterly cold, and pensioners who refuse the flu jab but fret about Ebola had grated on his last nerve all afternoon, and so John was in a foul mood leaving work. Despite the great gains made in all aspects of modern life, the human race was obviously fundamentally deficient in two ways: evaluating real vs. perceived threats, and that they hadn’t invented a stylish and effective method of keeping one’s nose warm without swaddling the whole head in scarves and bank robbing attire.

It was difficult to remain upset when London was in full beautiful rot, though. The autumn was the time he eschewed the tube on the way home, and instead cut through Regent's park. Its winding paths and careful landscaping were fairly abandoned compared to their spring and summer peaks, and there wasn’t too much risk from unsalted paths until the snow started to fall, and so it was a vast, landscaped oasis from the bustle of central London.

 

Still, it didn’t mean he didn’t worry that once the proper winter came, he would lose his nose to frost, like the urban myth about the unprotected tourist in Siberia.

 

The park looked as if it was resisting autumn though. Where most of the streets surrounding it were covered in leaves, the park seemed as if it had been thoroughly cleaned. There weren’t even any piles indicating recent landscaping.

 

Living with Sherlock meant he noticed these things. John sometimes wandered if Sherlock was using his brain as overflow storage for his mind palace, forcing him to observe things that Sherlock didn’t have the capacity for anymore. Turning John into an increasingly short-tempered external hard drive.

It had its benefits though.

 

When he walked into the warm hallway of 221 the rush of warm air was so physically pleasurable he could never help but groan. Mrs Hudson called out a cheery greeting at the noise, and with a reply (still rather muffled from all the scarves) he went running up the stairs to where the hot air should have (theoretically) risen. Throwing open the door, he was surprised by what he found there.

Now, being surprised by the contents of the living room was not unusual, living with Sherlock Holmes.

This time it was leaves. Leaves in piles everywhere. Leaves on the sofa, in a small mound on the coffee table, on the shelves, windowsill, on the lamp, balanced on top of the door frame (and now falling softly into his hair) and in a thick luscious carpet on the floor. Leaves. Brown, red, yellow and deep russet, with the odd lingering green one that had fallen with its brethren prematurely nestling in amongst them.

His stunned silence was interrupted by Sherlock clearing his throat. “Ah, I wasn’t expecting you back for a while. There are severe delays on the circle, district and Jubilee lines.”

“I walked” John said absently, still distracted, staring at him.

Sherlock has leaf mold in his hair and his nails are crusted with black gunge. Normally John wouldn’t feel anything but annoyance over the flat being ruined (again), especially the week the hoover packed in (again). John takes a deep breath to begin his rant, the gurgle of incredulity rising in his gullet, when Sherlock steps to him and slaps a large hand over his mouth.

“You have to understand that this is the half-way point of my grand plan” Sherlock baritones far too close.

“What’s the next part” John says as soon as Sherlock removes his hand. He’s making progress. John didn’t even have to lick him this time.

“This” Sherlock says, and tumbles them into the golden drift. John braces himself for being assaulted by the floorboards (again), but Sherlock’s hand cradles his skull and he avoids the usual egg sized lump. Sherlock looms, face a mask of indecision and slight shock at his own actions. They lie there for a few moments, waiting for the other to make the next move.

The jolt spurs the leaves to susurrus to them in a private language. The flat is loud with their whispers. The stir of the crack and slide sounds almost like the word -

Sherlock leans down and presses his lips to John’s, as the rustling of the leaves entreats them to kisskisskisskisskiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
